


see the mountains kiss high heaven

by pearypie



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Cesare and Lucrezia being selfish beauties, Character Study, Devotion, F/M, Fluff, Kisses, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:54:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7206653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A thousand kisses. That is what I want. A thousand kisses from your lips—a testament of your love.” </p><p>Cesare allows Lucrezia to demand anything of him on her birthday. (Just as he allows her to do any other day.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	see the mountains kiss high heaven

Cesare Borgia thinks his sister a queen. With her apple blossom skin and pale moon beauty, she could have been any saint, maiden, or damsel from the songs. She could have been the duchess of a fair keep with tall white pillars and rolling green hills decorated with fields of wildflowers, kissed by a lemon yellow sun. His sister could have happily ruled away from Rome but she would never have been content.

Just as he is hers, she is his—and Cesare Borgia is a selfish, wanting man. They call him Il Valentino and cower behind shadows but what does it matter what others think? Cesare only knows that Lucrezia is married to a boy-duke who she both loves and despises; that she spends her nights curled up in _Cesare's_ arms, white meringue skin soft and lovely, exposed by her thin chemise. Lucrezia’s guise is angelic—almost heartbreakingly so—but she plays the game as well as any man, seizing power with a pout of her cherry red lips, forcing Borgia influence further and further south.

She does not like being a pretty ornament. She does not want to raise babes in the oppressive heat of Naples—she would loathe herself for such piety.

Cesare may bear his teeth to the world, swing his sword and conquer cities, but Lucrezia shares his blood and holds his love. That in and of itself means _something._

 

It is the spring of Lucrezia’s birth and Rome is dyed with the color of poets’ thoughts—the saffron cobblestone and spiced air seem to rejoice in unique harmony, unconsciously celebratory. Sugar and cinnamon perfume the markets and the sky is clear and blue; spring seems to waltz behind every garret gate, entertaining the fairies of Roman past and building havens too rich to last.

Cesare had always thought it fitting that Lucrezia was born during the spring, when everything was light and beautiful—just like his beloved sister. It was when he could spoil her best and steal away all her attention—there would be no pretense for Alfonso or anyone else. The Vatican—and seemingly all of Rome—knew that spring was Cesare’s.

 _Lucrezia_ was Cesare’s.

It was thus that he found her in the gardens, the sienna pavilion dotted with dark forest green and full, blood red roses that his sister caressed with the tip of her rosy pale forefinger.

“Lucrezia.” Cesare smiled, walking over so that when she turned, she landed right in his arms. 

His sister laughed—a delightful, childishly sweet sound. “Cesare!” She cried, throwing her arms around him as he knew she would. “Oh brother dearest how wonderful that you’re here!” _How wonderful that you are all mine._ She leaned back, a smile of honey and mischief on her angelic visage. “Have you brought me presents, brother? Beautiful gifts from across the sea? Fine pink pearls? Teal and blossom dresses?” 

He laughs at her petulant whimsy and gathers her close, twirling Lucrezia around so her skirts twirled like the calla lily. In his arms, she looked freer than ever before. “Do you think me so simple as that?” Cesare chides, when he has gently set her down—dizzy and unsure—with her cheek pressed against his black doublet. “I have come to grant you an impossible request—something greater than dresses and jewels. Ask, dearest sis, and it shall be yours.”

Lucrezia snuggled closer, always wanting more. “I can ask for anything? And you won’t deny me?”

“Have I ever, sis?” 

Her greedy fingers come and fasten behind his neck; she looks up at him with woeful blue eyes. “I asked that you would always be mine.” Her voice is a reminder of everything he adores and Cesare feels his heart break.

“My heart, my love, my very soul and reason—they have always been yours. They _will_ always be yours. Politics and Charlotte, they’re one and the same. So long as she does not bother me, I shall not trouble her. She is to me another treatise, one that has been sealed with a stamp of matrimony. You, on the other hand,” Cesare tilts her chin up, “are the pearl of my world. My everlasting star. Don’t think such foolish thoughts.” He taps her nose and tucks a loose strand of gold behind her ear.

His words reassure and Lucrezia's mouth softens, her countenance becoming sweet again. “I love you best, Cesare. You’ve always known that. I love you better than anyone in this whole world.”

He chuckles. “I know that sis. Give me your wish and I shall make it tangible to you by first dawn. Let me cherish you as I always have.”

“Hm.” Lucrezia pauses to think and Cesare can practically see the gears in her mind turning. She’s as clever as he is and twice as pretty. “Very well, I have decided!” She triumphs at last, a devious little smile on her lips. “But first you must pay penance for leaving me in Rome for so long with no one to entertain me.” _Save Alfonso._  Her nose wrinkles when she thinks about her husband and Cesare—who can be as petty as any man—delights in her disgust.

“What is my sentence?” He intones, grave and loving and so wholly devoted that Lucrezia presses herself closer to him, her full breasts flush against Cesare’s chest. _A vixen. A goddess. My darling, beloved Venus._

“A thousand kisses. That is what I want. A thousand kisses from your lips—a testament of your love.”

Cesare feels his heart swell and his dark eyes burn with the lust of Ares. He adores his sister in every way and she knows his weaknesses better than any adversarial king. She is, after all, the commander of his heart.

“A thousand kisses. A pittance compared to my true devotion.” He murmurs lowly, dropping one kiss on her forehead, then another on her nose and, finally, one next to the corner of her mouth. “Three already, do you see?”

Lucrezia hums in agreement, bluebell eyes wide with innocence and impudence. “Yes but three such kisses are not what I want.”

“Are they not?”

“No.” She shakes her head, curls swaying side and side and—Cesare’s always marveled at how beautiful her hair is. The color the moon, glinting pale gold; heavy and fine and silken. He loves running his fingers through it late at night, when she’s curled up beside him, a sweet slumbering kitten.

“I would ask for obscure desire.” She whispers, leaning closer, intoxicating Cesare with her scent. _Pears and honey blossoms and sweet almond cakes._ “You kiss me as moonbeams do the sea—but...do not be so gentle, Cesare.”

She says no more for there is no need to. Cesare obeys with the diligence of a Roman general. His hands span her waist, fingers splaying across her back as he brings her close and she tilts her head back, ever so slightly. _Darling, darling Lucrezia._

He kisses her then, lips mapping her own with the meticulous dedication of Caesar, his very own namesake. She sighs, beautifully sweet, and becomes deliciously pliant—like honey warmed by the Roman sun. Lucrezia’s nimble fingers tangle themselves in his hair, wrapping his dark curls around her pale hands because he’s _hers hers hers._

His kiss burns and Valentino takes. Cesare's tongue traces her bottom lip and Lucrezia trembles in his arms. She opens her mouth in sweet surrender, pulling him closer because she’s loved him for so long and he’s been so strong and good and devoted— _to_ ** _her_**. Cesare Borgia is a fiend on the battlefield; a ruthless tactician who conquers with impunity, never giving thought to mercy unless provoked by his father. As son to the pope of Rome—the vicar of Christ—Cesare has unlimited resources that, when paired with his shrewd mind and pitiless ambition, makes him a beautiful, beautiful monster. 

But when he is with Lucrezia, holding her so close that their hearts beat in rhythm, he is nothing but noble and kind and loving. Because she is, to him, the only woman in this world Cesare both loves and respects. She understands the depths of his heart as well as the mazes of his mind. Since the day she was born, fair haired and wanting, Cesare knew that she was his. Lucrezia loved easily enough but her guile was quick and her wit was sweet; she took to Cesare and demanded he guard her love well, for he was the only one she would kill for.

Cesare feels liquid fire running through his veins as Lucrezia’s breasts push against him, as her teeth nip and bite, teasing him relentlessly because she wants _more._

“Come, my love.” Cesare murmurs against her rose red mouth. “Let us finish this inside.”

Lucrezia’s eyes sparkle like sapphires bathed in sunlight. “You won't love me with regret?” She worries, ever so slightly. She remembers his rejection after their first night—when he’d fled to France and realized his error.

Now he has learned and once bitten, Cesare is indomitable. “Never, my love.” He promises, words laden with blood and sincerity. It is a promise he will never break. Not for all the world. “I will make you mine for all eternity, sis.”

Lucrezia’s hummingbird heartbeat buzzes and she feels an overwhelming sense of excitement that causes her cheeks to flush and impatience to rise. Cesare, seeing his beloved’s eagerness, sweeps her into his arms and, with a tender kiss to her mouth, carries her away from the rose garden. 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I am absolute shipper trash. Cesare and Lucrezia are my guilty pleasure, what can I say. It’s as pure and forbidden as they come and set against 15th century Rome. (And who doesn’t love François and Holly together? They’re just too cute.)


End file.
